"What is it you want to know, dear? You were about to ask me something."
"Yes, yes. Tell me—are you happy at home?"
"Very happy."
"Truly and indeed?"
"Truly and indeed. We are not rich, but that does not matter."
"Your husband is good to you?"
"There is no one in the world like him; he is the best, the noblest, the most unselfish of men!" But here, with a sudden feeling of remorse, she stopped. The contrast between her bright home and the gloomy home of her sister struck her with painful force; to speak of the joys of the one seemed to accentuate the miseries of the other.
"Go on, dear," said Mrs. Farebrother, gently; "it does not hurt me, indeed it does not; I have grown so used, in other homes, to what you see around you here that custom has made it less bitter than it once was. It makes me happy to hear of your happiness, and it holds out a glad prospect that my dear child, when she grows up, may have a little share in it."
"She shall, she shall; I promise it solemnly."
"Thank you, dear. So you must go on telling me of your good husband. He is still in his bank?"